


The Making of a Man

by jujitsuelf



Category: The Losers (2010), The Losers (Comic), The Losers - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-11
Updated: 2012-12-11
Packaged: 2017-11-20 21:33:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jujitsuelf/pseuds/jujitsuelf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At eighteen years old, Clay was an idiot. But some good came of it...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Making of a Man

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Cougar's_Catnip for the one word prompt 'snow'. Not really sure how this came about but Clay started talking and simply wouldn't stop.
> 
> Thanks to Cougar's_Catnip for the read through. All mistakes are mine!
> 
>  
> 
> Disclaimer – All publicly recognizable characters, settings etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. No money is being made from this work. No copyright infringement is intended

In hindsight, Clay reflected that he really should have had more sense than to steal a car on a frosty, snowy night.

Granted, he was eighteen at the time, and therefore a complete idiot. But honestly, that wasn’t an excuse for sheer, unbridled stupidity.

Watched by his so-called but not really friends, and warmed by more than half a bottle of Jack Daniels, Clay slammed his hands down on the worn bar top.

“Y’know what?” he slurred, glaring at the young men around him, “I’m sick of listenin’ to you losers whine and complain ‘bout your fuckin’ love lives.” Yes, the Jack was talking, but it didn’t stop him meaning what he said. “I’m gettin’ out o’ this dump. You can stay here an’ waste your lives, I’m gonna do somethin’.”

Clay stalked out of the bar without a backward glance, leaving his almost, but preferably not-friends gaping at him. The cold night air outside cut through his thin coat like a scalpel and he shivered violently. Even the amount of alcohol in his blood didn’t ward off the chill and he wrapped his arms around himself to keep warm.

For a second he debated going back into the pub for another shot, then dismissed the idea. He was genuinely sick of the inane chatter and utter brainlessness of the guys he’d been hanging out with recently. He knew he was destined for greater things, but for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out what they were or how to get there.

Right now, his problem was getting home without freezing his ass off. His eyes lit upon an old, battered Plymouth Fury, its faded paintwork testament to its age. He smiled slowly. To his inebriated, teenaged mind, taking a car because he was cold made perfect sense. And it wasn’t as though he’d never boosted a car before, but he’d never attempted it more than half drunk.

Crossing over the road, his shoes leaking and letting freezing slush in to chill his toes even more, Clay ran his hand along the Fury’s hood. 

“Hello, beautiful,” he cooed. “You wanna give me a ride home?”

Taking off his coat, he wrapped it around his right hand and punched the driver’s side window. The tinkle of breaking glass was the only sound in the quiet street and Clay shushed the car urgently.

“Baby, you wanna get me in trouble?” he hissed at the car. “We gotta be quiet. Vewy, vewy, qwiet.” He giggled at his own joke, then shushed himself.

The seat he slid into after opening the door by shoving his arm through the broken window and tugging up the lock, was as worn as the rest of the car. There was a strong odor of dog from the back seat and claw marks all over the passenger side of the dashboard. Clay breathed it in and smiled beatifically. 

“Come on, honey, let’s go home.”

Hot wiring a car hadn’t been on the list of things Clay’s parents thought a young man of good standing should learn, but he didn’t pay much attention to that list. Certain skills were practically essential and knowing how to take a car that wasn’t yours was one of them. 

The engine roared comfortingly and strains of some kind of country music began to leak out of the worn-out radio. Clay thought about switching it off, but somehow the tinny sound seemed to fit the battered car, so he left it.

“Time to go, baby,” he murmured, swinging the car out into the road.

His own breath was misting up the inside of the windshield so Clay groped for the heater and turned it up to full. It didn’t do much to help, instead faint gas fumes filled the car. The windshield stayed misted over, so he rubbed a patch clear.

“There, that’s better, huh, honey?” he smiled, running his hands over the wheel. “You come home with me, I’ll look after ya.”

***

The route from the bar to his parents’ house included one really nice flat stretch of road, straight apart from a couple of decent bends. He’d driven it a hundred times and knew this old girl would have the time of her life out there. She was battered on the outside but now that her engine was warming up she sounded as sweet as any Mustang.

As soon as the road opened up into the nice straight stretch, Clay pushed the accelerator down and laughed at the dull roar from under the hood. The snow outside sped past in a white blur, the speed getting into his blood, making him laugh again with the sheer joy of being alive.

The first bend was suddenly right in front of him, a tight right-hander that tended to be tricky if taken at speed. Just as he entered it, the wheels hit a patch of black ice that Clay had no chance of seeing. Desperately spinning the wheel, he dimly remembered his dad saying something about steering into a skid and not stomping on the brakes too hard, but before he could do anything the car slid onto the other side of the road.

To his horror, headlights suddenly dazzled Clay and he heard frantic honking of another car’s horn. A truck loomed in front of him, filling the windshield. There was absolutely nothing he could do, even though the ice didn’t extend to this side of the road, the Fury’s wheels were locked and no amount of yanking on the steering wheel did any good. 

The truck hit the Fury just shy of head on. Clay catapulted forward, hands outstretched to try to protect his face. His forehead slammed into the steering wheel, and everything went abruptly black.

***

Before Clay woke up he knew he was in hospital. That particular cloying smell of disinfectant was tickling the inside of his nose and the sound of people bustling around while trying to be quiet reached his ears. 

He attempted to crack an eye open and instantly regretted it. Mother fuck, his head hurt. Raising a hand to it, his fingers encountered a bandage wrapped around his forehead. Ah, that explained the headache then. Memories came whooshing back in an almost painful rush and both his eyes popped open. 

“Shit,” he croaked, remembering the truck and the ice and the stolen Fury. Fumbling, he shoved back the bedclothes and swung his legs over the side of the bed. 

As though summoned by magic, a nurse appeared from behind the curtains and said firmly, “Mister Clay, get back into bed.”

“Hell, no,” Clay muttered, grabbing at his pants, which were draped over a nearby chair.

The nurse neatly took the pants from his grasp and said again, “Get back into bed, please. You’ve got a head injury and you’re not going anywhere for a while.”

Clay glared mutinously at her, all the rebellion in his eighteen year old soul getting ready to pour out of him. A tall police officer appeared behind the nurse and he instantly sagged back into the bed.

“Good idea, son,” the officer said genially. “You get that head of yours seen to and then you can tell me what you were thinking, taking a car on a night like this.”

Saying nothing seemed to be the best idea, so Clay slumped against his pillows and stared down at his hands.

His parents arrived not long afterward. It wasn’t the first time he’d landed himself in hospital and far from the first time they’d seen him getting a stern talking to from a police officer. His mother sighed sadly and stroked his hair, and his father gave him a patented Franklin Clay senior glare.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” his hissed at his wayward son. “You want to be a screw up your whole life? You want to make your mother cry?”

“Maybe I just don’t want to be like you,” Clay replied, looking his father dead in the eyes. “Stuck in the same shithole of a town till I die, same dead end job, never achieving anything worthwhile.”

His father backed away at that. “My family’s worthwhile,” he said quietly, turning to leave. “At least I thought it was.” Taking Clay’s mother by the arm, he ushered her gently out of the small cubicle, not looking back at his son.

Clay closed his eyes and thumped his head on the pillow. Crap. He hadn’t exactly meant to say that, but apparently head injuries made him talk.

He thought about trying to sneak out of the hospital, but after he twitched the curtain aside and saw the tall cop lingering outside, he swore and sat back on the bed, resigned to his fate.

***

When he thought back on it in years to come, Clay realized that things could have turned out far worse for him. 

The judge he was hauled in front of was an ex-army colonel and had known Clay’s father since they were boys. Fixing young Clay with a piercing stare that seemed to flay his very soul, the man growled, “You are a disgrace. To your parents, to this town and most of all to yourself. You know you have a rap sheet as long as my arm? Of course you do, you’re probably one of those punks who’s proud of it. Thumbing your nose at The Man, right? Never going to take orders from anyone, going to tell the world to shove it up its ass and do everything your own way? Am I getting close here?”

Silence seemed prudent, so Clay kept his eyes downcast, trying for humility and failing miserably.

“I’m going to give you a choice,” the judge said firmly. “Though heaven knows you don’t deserve one. But I think there’s a good man in you somewhere. I think you just need someone to kick your ass into shape and make you believe it. So, young Mister Clay, a choice. Jail or the army.”

“What?!” Clay’s head whipped up. “You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, but I am,” the judge said with a silky smile. “Which one is it?”

Clay narrowed his eyes at the grizzled veteran but said without hesitation, “Army.”

“Good choice,” the judge said. “If you make it through basic you might one day be a half decent human being. Who knows, maybe you might even make officer training.”

“Yeah, right,” Clay snorted, “ they’ll kick me out within a week.”

“Well, if they do, your ass is heading straight for jail,” the judge said smugly, making Clay blanche. “So it’s in your own best interest, and your ass’ interest, to make sure they don’t have a reason to kick you out.”

***

Clay smiled and shook his head at his eighteen year old self. So cocky, so full of his own importance, never once imagining that he’d find the home he’d so desperately wanted in the bosom of the army.

Coming back to the present, he rubbed his eyes and glanced over at Roque. “Cougar in position?”

The big man nodded, his dark eyes glittering with anticipation at the coming fight.

“Jensen, you set?” Clay muttered over his radio.

“Set,” Jensen could be succinct when he wanted to, he just didn’t often want to.

“Pooch, light ‘em up,” Clay grinned, knowing Pooch would be itching to throw his flash bangs down into the terrorist compound.

And later, after the gunfire had stopped and the bad guys were dead and the kidnapped UN members had been safely delivered to their worried counterparts, Clay reached up to touch the faded scar on his forehead. He smiled, maybe being a complete idiot at eighteen wasn’t the end of the world after all.


End file.
